


The Lost Flight

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Family, Finland (Country), Friendship, Gen, Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Illya has pulled escort duty, and is traveling with Mrs. Waverly and her two grandchildren to meet Alexander Waverly in Finland for the holidays.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The prompt for this story:

Illya was sitting in his seat on the  private UNCLE Learjet; arms crossed in front of himself, he was trying to sleep but that just wasn’t going to happen.  
  
Giggling and squealing children running around inside the cabin were usually not a source of annoyance to him but at the moment they were, as he was extremely tired.  
  
A transatlantic flight with Mrs.Waverly and her two grandchildren from New York to Scotland and now from Scotland to Rovaniemi, the administrative capital of Finland's northernmost province, Lapland was wearing thin on the Soviet agent. This was his second flight across the pond this week and the jet lag was catching up on him.  
  
Still when Alexander Waverly asked one to escort his wife and grandchildren to him in Finland, one did not refuse.

They were heading there to meet him in Rovaniemi as he was caught up in meetings with potential member nations looking to align themselves with U.N.C.L.E. 

It was getting near to Christmas and Alexander knew he wouldn’t be home in time and with the grandchildren staying with his wife...well he just didn’t want to miss spending the holiday with them; he’d done that in the past too many times with his own children.  
  
He was getting to an age where he was missing the grandkids as well as his wife. Perhaps it was time to think of retiring; in truth, how many more years might God grant him to be on this earth? His wife Estelle had managed to raise their children more or less without him; she was a woman made of sterner stuff and understood the needs of his job.

 “Dash it all! Not this year! They were going to enjoy Christmas together, even if it’s in Finland,” Waverly swore to himself.  
  
Alexander suddenly chuckled. The Finns considered Rovaniemi to be the official home town of Santa Claus. Perhaps the jolly old elf himself could pay a personal visit to the children once they arrived.

Rovaniemi was a remarkable city, situated roughly 6 miles south of the Arctic Circle, as the reindeer flew, and was between the hills of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara, at the confluence of the river Kemijoki and its tributary, the Ounasjoki river. During the Second World War, Finland signed the Moscow Armistice and found itself involved in the Lapland War with its former German ally. In October of 1944 the retreating  German army received orders to destroy all the buildings in Rovaniemi, excluding hospitals and houses where inhabitants were present.

While the German rear guard was going about the destruction, an ammunition train in Rovaniemi station exploded and set fire to the wooden houses of the town. Still, the German troops suffered many casualties.

A Finnish commando unit claimed to have blown up the ammunition train and may well have been the primary cause of the town's ruin. The cause was then unknown and generally assumed to be the deliberate intent of the Germans.  
  
Ninety percent of all the buildings in Rovaniemi were destroyed and, as Alexander Waverly looked out his hotel window, he marveled at the recovery of the city. The lights were bright, but the really amazing view was that of the Aurora Borealis.  
  
Swaths of green rippled and undulated across the night sky. They were nearly hypnotic. It was known for being visible here more than any other place.  
  


  
“The northern lights are amazing sir aren’t they sir?” Napoleon Solo said as he set down a drink he’d just made for the Old Man. “Shame though, I heard it’s supposed to start snowing heavily for the next few days. Good thing your family will be arriving soon.”  
  
Mr. Waverly canted his head to one side, lost in thought.  
  
“Hmmm, yes quite. I was hoping the youngsters would be able to see the lights...oh well. Mother Nature doesn’t feel like being cooperative does she? Still it will be good to spend the holiday with the Mrs. and grandchildren for once. My apologies for you not being able to spend Christmas with your own family Mr. Solo.”  
  
“No worries there sir; they’re all travelling for the holidays. The ummm...date I had scheduled understood.”

Waverly had a twinkle in his eye. “Yes your Aunt Amy is a good sport, isn’t she?” He winked.  
  
Napoleon smiled. How the hell Old Man knew these things still amazed him. He only hoped when it came his turn to man the helm of the Command, that he’d be as intuitive as Mr. Waverly.  
  
He looked at his wristwatch.” I’m afraid sir it’s time to head back to the negotiating table.”  
  
Waverly downed the rest of his drink and placed it on a nearby table.  
  
“You will let me know when the plane arrives will you?”  
  
“Absolutely sir.”  Napoleon gestured with his hand as he opened the door for his boss to exit.  
  
“And try not to get yourself entangled with anyone while I’m in the meeting, if you get my drift...ahem,  Mr. Solo.”  
  
Napoleon lowered his eyes. He’d made arrangements to meet a gorgeous blonde named Vilhelmiina...Mimmi for short. Hopefully she’d understand; maybe she didn’t have plans for Christmas? If she did, then he could always spend it with his partner. What was he thinking? Illya, though he loved the guy, was a stick in the mud when it came to the holidays.  
  
He’d had gotten Illya to loosen up a bit; he’d finally succumbed to the idea of exchanging gifts. He’d also started showing up at the headquarters Christmas party back in New York, though at first it seemed like it was for the food. Solo chuckled to himself when the former Soviet agent asked how much it cost, and was completely wide-eyed with surprise when he was told it was free, and it was catered by Mr. Waverly.  
  
Since then Illya got how things worked. He became a bit more social at these holiday events once he realized that not everyone at headquarters disliked him because he was a Soviet and a Communist. To the contrary, he was well liked by most people. Illya just didn’t know it as he kept to himself so much.  
  
Napoleon managed to take care of a few of the naysayers with whom Illya had some unpleasant run ins. One pair tried to beat the crap out of him in the men’s locker room down at the gymnasium, telling him to go home to Russia. Once Illya confessed why he was sporting a black eye, and who gave it to him. Solo reported it to Mr. Waverly  who took swift action.  
  
The men involved were transferred to a weather station located on Mount McKinley in Alaska; it was the highest peak in North America and considered the coldest mountain on earth.  
  
They were assigned to the weather station located there as security, seeing that no one interfered with it.  Of course with the wind gusts ranging anywhere from 50 to 100 mph, the chances of any problems at the weather station seemed close to nil.

  
  
After seeing Waverly to his latest meeting, and making sure security was in place, Napoleon went to the hotel restaurant. There he ordered himself a strong cup of black coffee. Something told him he was going to need it. Sitting off to the side at a table in the shadows he waited for the call telling him the UNCLE jet had arrived. At least going to pick them up at the airport would break the monotony.  
  
…..

One of Illya’s eyes popped open as he heard the voice of Edmé MacDougall who’d come on board in Scotland as hostess for the last leg of their flight. She was rather close to his face.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin, I think there’s a wee problem,” she whispered. “By my reckoning we should be just about ready ta land. I took some coffee ta the pilots and I saw we’re nae on the right course.”  
  
Kuryakin’s eyes opened wide. “Say nothing to Mrs. Waverly. I will go check on this. Just as a precaution everyone should be seated and wearing their safety belts.”  
  
As soon as his back was to everyone, Illya drew his gun from his shoulder holster, just in case.  
  
He slowly parted the curtains at the cockpit entrance. Looking at the controls and knew instantly that Edmé was correct.

  
“Why have you changed course?” He demanded, not revealing his gun just yet.  
  
“Reports of bad weather, so just go back to your seat and let us do our jobs Kuryakin.”  
  
For a split second Illya was taken aback at the man’s tone of voice.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
The copilot turned, holding a Luger in his right hand.”I’ll take your gun Kuryakin.”  
  
Illya dove for the man's weapon, wrestling for it. In the process it went off; the shot hitting the pilot. As the struggle continued the plane went into an immediate descent. The gun went off again, this time hitting the copilot.  
  
Illya released his grip, though it was premature as the pilot was able to get off one more shot before he died. This one hit the Russian in the shoulder.  
  
He went down, and struggled to stand in order to get the pilot from his seat. Once he did, Illya climbed into the chair. Gripping the controls, he tried to pull the plane up but it was too far gone when he saw the altimeter.  
  
“Hold on, we are going to crash!” He yelled to the others.  
  
He grabbed a microphone, getting out a mayday just before the plane slammed into the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

When the plane settled after the crash, Mrs. Waverly still had her wits about her when she released her seatbelt and she immediately to her grandchildren, Thomas and Susan. Though hysterical, they were unharmed.

Edmé wasn’t so lucky; she was dead, with her neck having been broken. Her lifeless body was still strapped in her seat.  
  
Estelle glanced out one of the windows as she made her way up to the cockpit, calling out Illya’s name. They were surrounded by snow, white fluffy snow, which probably saved their lives.  
  
She found him in the pilot’s chair, his head and shoulder bloodied but he was thankfully alive.  
  
“Illya!” She tapped him on the cheek, but there was no reaction. Behind her on the wall she spotted a first aide kit; retrieving it, she found smelling salts. She broke the ampule beneath Illya’s nose and Kuryakin immediately sputtered as he came to.  
  
“Illya, what happened?”Mrs. Waverly asked.  
  
“You are all right...the children?”  
  
“Yes, we’re fine. Sadly Miss MacDougall did not survive, as I see are our pilot and copilot did not either. What, may I ask again, happened?”  
  
“They were taking us somewhere else, I suspect kidnapping you and the children. A gun was drawn on me and went off during the struggle…Mrs. Waverly, I am afraid to say that I am unable to see at the moment.”

  
She waved her hand in front of his eyes just to check. There was no reaction.  
  
“Oh dear, most likely temporary from your head injury.” She wiped the blood as best she could, taping a square of gauze on his head laceration.He had a sizeable lump on his forehead as well.  
  
“It’s that shoulder wound I’m concerned about as it must be tended to. Sadly the on board first aide kit has little more than some gauze bandages and tape...oh and the smelling salts. We need to find you some help. Now sit still dear whilst I tend to your shoulder…”  
  
“No Mrs. Waverly, I will do it.”  
  
“No such thing young man. Number one you’re unable to see and number two, you forget that I was a nurse during the Great War. That’s how Mr. Waverly and I met, “she continued talking as she cut away his suit jacket as well as the shoulder of his shirt and the one sleeve.  
  
”He was home on a brief leave from his work in British Intelligence in France.” *   
  
Illya’s eyes blinked slowly as he listened. There was no point in arguing with the woman as she was stubborn and single-minded when it came to getting her way. Illya greatly admired her tenacity.  
  
He hissed as she probed the wound with her fingers. “The bullet isn’t too deep, but there are no forceps to get it. Best thing I can do is bandage it before we make our way out of here.”  
  
“We are not leaving the plane,” Illya grimaced.” I was able to get out a mayday and… the radio?”  
  
“It’s smashed,” she replied.“I’m afraid we can’t stay here dearest as we most likely will freeze to death. If you could see, you’d know we came down in snow which is probably why the plane didn’t break up into smithereens.”  
  
Illya tried shaking his head no, but instead he moaned from a sharp pain that went shooting across his forehead.   
  
“Where is my communicator?” He tried feeling his jacket pockets with his left hand, but it wasn’t there.  
  
After a looking through the cockpit, Estelle was unable to locate it.   
  
She made up a sling with the remnant of his shirt sleeve and carefully slipped his arm into it. “I wouldn’t move your head again like that if I were you,” Estelle warned.“Now slowly dear, let’s see if you can stand.  
  
With Mrs. Waverly’s help he got to his feet, and was steadier than he hoped he’d be. She led him back through the cabin where he was promptly accosted by the children.  
  
“Illya!” Susan cried out.” I was scared. Are you all right?”  
  
He carefully knelt down, letting the little girl hug him. “I will be fine, and I am very thankful that you, your brother and grandmother are unharmed.”  
  
“Miss Mac Dougal is dead,” the child whispered with a quivering lower lip.  
  
“Yes I know mon petite chérie,” Illya hugged the little girl to him with his free arm before being helped into one of the seats. The Waverly grandchildren, like their parents were well schooled in French, Italian and Spanish; a fair number of the romance languages.  
  
“Could you please help me Susan?” He asked. “ I need you to search the cabin for a silver pen. It it most important that we find it.”  
  
“Oh you mean your communicator?”  
  
“Umm, yes.” Why did it surprise him the child knew what it was; she was after all, a Waverly.  
  
Unfortunately, after a thorough searching, the device was still nowhere to be found.  
  
“Thomas,” Estelle turned to her grandson.” I need you to fetch our luggage in the rear of the plane and bring it here. We’re all going to need our warm clothes and wellies.”  
  
She was determined they head out, rather than freezing to death in the plane wreckage.  Snow was blowing inside through several broken windows.  Illya was in no position to countermand Mrs. Waverly’s decision, and that was they would wait here whilst she went out to look for some help.  
  
Thomas did as he was told, bringing their bags forward. Luckily they hadn’t been stowed in the cargo hold, otherwise they would have been buried beneath the plane, and unreachable.  
  
He helped Illya change into a pair of heavy brown corduroy pants. Illya managed, though hissing with the pain to get into a thick woolen turtleneck sweater.  
  
Beneath it though, Mrs. Waverly folded a small towel over his wound, and fashioned a much more comfortable sling made from a Hermes scarf from her rather large shoulder bag. The last thing done was to change Illya’s footwear to a pair of black boots and heavy socks from his luggage.   
  
He came well prepared for the cold weather of Finland and was prepared to wander about the wilderness for Christmas, though he was sure Napoleon would try to drag him into some sort of holiday celebration as was his usual modus operandi.  
  
“Don’t you look quite chic, in your pale yellow Hermes sling,” Estelle laughed.  
  
“Mrs. Waverly...please.” Illya groaned.  
  
“Always so serious,” she clicked her tongue.  
  
If he could have shrugged, he would have done so.  
  
Once they were all dressed, they donned their heavy coats. Illya not being able to put one arm in a sleeve had his coat held closed with safety pins from Mrs. Waverly’s treasure trove of a purse. In there she had some sweets for the children, several rolls of LifeSaver candies, which she handed to them, and Illya as well.  
  
He drew a red one from the roll, and as the sweet cherry flavor hit is tongue, he closed his eyes and savored it. Kuryakin wished she had a communicator hidden in her bag as well, but there was no such luck there.  
  
Estelle gave them all a stern wagging with her gloved finger, telling them to behave. “And that includes you Mr. Kuryakin.”   
  
“Yes Ma’am,” he saluted with his left hand. “Though I again lodge a protest against you leaving.”  
  
“Duly noted.” After releasing the safety bar, she opened the door and stepping out into the snow. She slammed it shut behind her with a loud thud.  
  
To pass the time, and keep the children occupied Illya again sent them hunting for his communicator pen.   
  
“I found it!” Thomas finally called out.”But it’s broken.”He held up the pen for Illya to take in his hand.  
  
The communicator had come apart and the bottom half was crushed, and the antenna broken off.  
  
“Chyort!” Illya cursed. Still it was open, and maybe a weak signal might be picked up. If he could see, he probably could have repaired the device.  
  
“Naughty naughty!” Susan chided him.”You said a bad word Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
“You understand Russian?”  
  
“Some. Grandad’s been teaching us.”  
  
“Really?” Illya smiled. The Waverly’s were indeed an interesting family.  
  
…….

Estelle Griffin-Waverly had an excellent sense of direction, but just to be on the safe side she marked the trees as she walked onwards, slicing a small notch in the trunks with a pen knife.  
  
As a young girl she was a member of the Girls Guides, which were a part of the British Boy Scouts.

With a public outcry over girls in the Scouts, the British Boy Scouts launched the British Girl's Nursing Corps under a Scout mistress reporting to the BBS executive and becoming a separate organization 1910...that was ancient history now as far as Mrs. Waverly was concerned.   
  
It was getting colder and snow was now falling. Yet after some time, she saw a light in the distance and as she moved closer she realized it was an Orthodox church. It was an old one made of wood and it was definitely...Russian.   
  
“Oh dear,” she said aloud as she realized they were somewhere in the Soviet Union. That could be quite a problem for Mr. Kuryakin.  
  
Still there seemed to be a fire going as there black smoke rising from the chimney. Someone there was bound to be able to help.  
  
Mrs. Waverly felt there was no choice. She had to save the children and Mr. Kuryakin.

  
[* ref. “Home is where the Heart is”](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11880697/1/Home-is-where-the-heart-is)


	3. Chapter 3

Illya and the children were huddled together when they heard it, the jingling of bells.  
  
“Santa?” Susan whispered.

  
“I think not,” Illya said as he raised his gun with his left hand. He’d previously instructed Thomas on how to tell him in which direction to shoot based upon the hands of a clock.  
  
Illya pointed the gun at the noise as the door opened.

 

“Don’t shoot Illya, it’s Grandma!” Thomas barked. The two children ran towards her, wrapping their arms around her.

  
“Yes please don’t shoot me Mr. Kuryakin. My husband would be quite cross with you if you did.”  
  
“Yes Ma’am.” he immediately lowered the weapon.  
  
“Well I have good news and bad news. Which would you liked to hear first?”  
  
“It does not matter,”Illya answered.  
  
“Very well then, the good news first. I have found us help. The bad news is that our plane has come down in the Soviet Union.”  
  
A man with a full white beard dressed in a heavy black coat stepped in behind her. He said nothing until he was inside the cabin.  
  
“Privetstvuyu,” he greeted them.  
  
“Hello,” Kuryakin replied in Russian.”My name is Illya, might you be able to help us? As you can see we are in a bit of difficulty.”  
  
“Yes, Mrs. Waverly told me of your predicament. You will come with me please back to my home…oh and my name is Pavel Andreivich. I was once a priest in the Orthodox church but no more, well at least I can no longer practice my faith. There are so few people here this time of year, what does it matter even if I could? I have been lucky as I avoided being sent to gulag all these years. I guessed NKVD and now KGB have forgotten about this part of Russia...I mean Soviet Union as it is so remote and sparsely populated.”

Illya said nothing at first, and slowly rose. “Do you speak English?”  
  
Pavel shook his head no, which meant Mrs. Waverly must have indeed spoken Russian to him. The fact that the man knew the details of their predicament confirmed that to Kuryakin. He wondered if she knew Finnish as well?  
  
Illya held out his hand in friendship, though he was pointing it in the wrong directly. “I hope that would include KGB not having much of a presence here...where is here by the way?”   
  
“The Karelian Isthmus, in the Leningrad oblast...or is it St. Petersburg? It it hard to remember now days. We are basically in the middle of nowhere. The village that was once here was wiped out during the conflict between Soviet Union and Finland and few people remain. Now come we must go before the snow becomes heavier.”  
  
Kuryakin, with the help of the children, made his way to the door and outside. Waiting there for them was a red sleigh and harnessed to it were a pair of sturdy reindeer.   
  
“Look it is Santa’s sleigh!” Susan giggled.  
  
Santa was one word Pavel knew and it made him smile. “Nyet. Sorry little one but no Grandfather Christmas here. It is merely an old man’s sled and his reindeer. We use them here instead of horses.”  
  
Illya started to translate but was interrupted.  
  
“I understood him,” Susan nodded.  
  
Illya was even more impressed with the Waverly family than ever.  
  
“Do they have names?” She asked Pavel.  
  
“Da, the big one is Vasha, and the other his brother is Pasha.”  
  
Everyone snuggled under blankets and furs as Pavel yanked the reins, telling calling for Vasha and Pasha to go.  
  
Gliding across the snow, the feel of the cold brought a plethora of memories back to Kuryakin. He couldn’t see a thing, but he could feel and remember. The scents of the forest were powerful as were his memories, good ones for once.  
  
The last time he was in St. Petersburg he road in a troika with a pretty girl and fellow Military Intelligence agent named Rada Ryabkova...he smiled as he recalled those days with Rada. Sadly,she died while on assignment somewhere in the jungles of South America.  
  
The sled pulled up in front of an old Orthodox church, and Estelle made a point of describing it to Illya. To her it was beautiful, but to him it brought back more memories from is past, but this time they were ones he didn’t really want to revisit.  
  
His thoughts immediately went to to that of St. Andrews in Kyiv, and the time spent there with with his now long dead family.   
  
Before she disappeared, never to be seen again, his babushka tried to get him to not lose his faith in God, but after seeing his mother and infant brothers murdered in the street by Nazi soldiers...he became angry with God. He gave up believing. *  
  
“Yes, thank you Mrs. Waverly. I am sure it is lovely but might we go inside? My shoulder is hurting terribly.”  
  
“Why yes of course Illya dear, what was I thinking?”   
  
Illya was guided inside the church and Pavel helped him lay down on a nearby fur covered bed.

The church was devoid of all religious imagery. There were no icons or holy images present.  The interior was now a home, with several beds,  a large wooden table with benches, several crudely made chairs. There was a cast iron stove but towards the back of the church was a hearth with a roaring fire.  
  
“First we see to your wound,” Pavel announced,” Mrs. Waverly if you would assist me?”  
  
He reached to a shelf above the bed, taking down a small black bag.  
  
“If you could sterilize this for me please? I had some medical training during the Great Patriotic War.”  
  
“I was a nurse back then,” she smiled, patting the back of his hand.  
  
“I am sorry my son, but I have nothing to dull the pain,” Pavel whispered.  
  
“It is fine. Just do it.”  
  
Illya moaned ever so slightly as the procedure began. Pavel was quick in his probing for the bullet. Estelle assisted, helping to wipe the blood as he worked and finally found the bullet.  
  
Pavel held it up for her to see, then proceeded to clean the wound as best he could and stitched it closed. Mrs. Waverly put a fresh dressing on it.   
  
The man washed his hands in a small basin then lit a fire for heating up water in a polished brass samovar for tea, and placing a simple tea pot atop it; he waited for the water to boil.  
  
“I will be back shortly,” Pavel said.”Help yourself to the tea when it is ready. Do you know how to use the samovar?”  
  
“Da,” Estelle nodded, but she was suddenly a bit suspicious.”Where are you going?”   
  
“Do not worry. I must go unharness the reindeer and feed them in the barn where they stay. Would you like to help me Tomas and S'yuzen? If they may?” He looked to Estelle.  
  
“Nyet,” Illya called out.” As grateful as we are for your help we do not…”  
  
“I understand my son. You do not know me so how can you trust me? Here, perhaps this might help?” Pavel opened a carved wooden chest and lifted out his priest’s robes, and with it a prayer book. There was a yellowed photograph of him in his younger days, dressed in his priestly garb.”  
  
“Illya it’s all right, I have a good feeling about him,” Estelle spoke up in English.  
  
After putting on their coats Pavel and the children went outside, though Estelle peeked out of the window watched as the they climbed into the sled and it was driven round the corner.   
  
A short while later two yawning children followed Pavel inside; he was carrying the blankets and fur throws from the sled.   
  
“Once these are dried they will help keep us all warm. I fear it is going to be a very cold night.  
  
Estelle helped him open them, spreading them on the floor near the fireplace. She then poured him a glass of strong tea, noting the holder was gold plated and beautifully enameled with white and blue. One of the other holders was plain, apparently made of cheap aluminum, with the hammer and sickle prominently featured on it. This was a stark reminder of where they were.  
  
“Now time for some food,” Pavel clapped his hands together.  
  
“Let me help,” Estelle said.”The least I can do for you rescuing us.”  
  
“The dishes are there,” he pointed to the cupboard.” They are the special ones I use for company, otherwise I eat from a plain wooden bowl.”  
  
Estelle brought out a beautiful set of bowls; they were black lacquered on the outside with a design of berries and swirls of golden leaves. The inside were shimmering gold.  
  
  
  
“I know, not what you expect a humble former priest to have. They were gifts from parish members over the years. The style of decoration is called Khokhloma. It was supposed to have originated in the town of Semyonov, in the Gorky region, a little over 300 miles northeast of Moskva."  
  
"There is a legend that the craft was invented by a clandestine icon painter, who lived deep within the forests which surrounded the Kerzhenets River. The painter, a member of a group of ‘Old Believers’ who inhabited the area, broke from the Russian Orthodox church in the middle of the 17th century. The painter learned of a band of men who were coming to bring him back to Moscow to answer for his dissension. The craftsman quickly gave away his brushes, and told the members of his village the secrets of the art of Khokhloma. It is said that he burned down his house, and was killed in the blaze, but throughout the night the red fire cast a golden aura against the black night sky, so that no one would soon forget the colors associated with the art of Khokhloma.”  
  
“That’s a wonderful story Pavel, thank you.”  
  
Illya who had nodded off was woken by the children, and was told food was ready. Though Estelle wanted him to stay in bed, he refused. Thomas carefully led him to the table. To make it easier Illya was given a chair at the end while the others used the benches.  
  
In the middle of the table a large bowl of red borscht along with a bowl with sour cream. On a platter with a was a stack of mini-pies called piroshki which were filled with potato, egg and cheese. There was also a loaf of freshly baked brown bed, and a bowl of fresh butter.  
  
Generally no meat was eaten until after Christmas in the Orthodox tradition, but Pavel lived on a rather spartan diet, so not eating meat wasn’t really a problem. His guests would eat what he ate.  
  
There was more tea, and milk for the children as Pavel had a milk cow as well as chickens, besides his two reindeer. That and having this church as his home made him a rather lucky man.  
  
Illya moved carefully as the food was set in front of him.  
  
“It smells delicious, thank you again Pavel. I apologize for seeming distrustful.”  
  
“My boy, it is understandable. I think I can speak frankly to you. We live under a great shadow here in our country. Mother Russia I think weeps for what has been done to her by the bolsheviks and the others who followed them. We all live in fear. Everyone spies on his brother and will betray anyone to save themselves.”  
  
That’s exactly what was in the back of Illya’s mind. Surely the Soviet Air defenses tracked the UNCLE jet, and knew where it came down. They’d be out here soon enough looking for the occupants of it.

Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti was in favor with the Kremlin right now, and he being a former GRU agent who refused to spy for the KGB when he was sent to the U..N.C.L.E. made him a thorn in their side.

He would be interrogated most assuredly; there would be no gulag for him, only a firing squad. All of this would be done in secret. No one would know...not GRU, Kremlin, or U.N.C.L.E. He knew the way KGB worked; they had made too many people disappear without a trace. Families might or might not be notified of the death of their loved one months after the fact. No one dared question their actions.  
  
As to Mrs. Waverly and the children, he hated to think what could happen to them...

They might be executed as well or somehow they could be miraculously returned unharmed to Alexander Waverly; the Old Man had a fair amount of pull with the Kremlin, though not KGB.

“Pavel, I fear our presence here will put you in danger. Someone...the military will surely be coming to look for us. This is my fault.”  
  
Not being able to see; Kuryakin had no idea how he was going to get them out of this.   
  
“Illya it was not your fault so stop that nonsense immediately,” Estelle snapped at him. “Alexander will come for us, or rather I should say Mr. Solo will. You know that in your heart of hearts my dear.”  
  
“I wish I could be as sure as you Mrs. Waverly.” She did not know KGB like he did.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Alexander Waverly was losing his patience. These meeting with potential members to UNCLE were getting nowhere.  There were too many  unreasonable demands, too much take and not enough give.  
  
He looked at his wristwatch, checking the time. Estelle and the children should have landed by now. The thought of seeing them soon invigorated the man and he suddenly slammed his fist on the table.  
  
That got the immediate attention of the representatives of India, Pakistan, Turkey and Israel.

Just as he was about to speak, one of his agents entered the room and whispered something in his ear.

  
Waverly’s bushy eyebrows immediately rose and he cleared his throat before speaking.  
  
“If you gentlemen will excuse me, there is something of great importance that I need to attend to. Please understand if you cannot agree upon what I asked of you then these meetings are at an end. I will expect your final answers shortly, now good evening.”  
  
He left abruptly with his agents accompanying him.  
  
Solo was waiting for Waverly in the Old Man’s hotel room, biting his lower lip with concern. Illya’s plane with the Waverly’s had gone off course and disappeared from radar. There was a mayday, but it was broken up and garbled. As Napoleon listened to a recording of it, he knew it was Illya’s voice.  
  
The door burst open and in charged Waverly.  
  
“What the devil has happened?”  
  
“Not sure sir,” Napoleon brought him up to date. “I’ve been trying to contact Mr. Kuryakin via communicator but there’s no reply.  
  
“Is there a signal?”  
  
“A weak one sir.”

“Then dammit man, get a fix on it and locate them. What’s wrong with you?”  
  
“Sir we just found out, and we’re already trying to lock in on the signal.”  
  
“My apologies Mr. Solo, you can understand my upset in this matter.”  
  
“Completely sir. We’re doing everything possible to locate the plane and your family,” Napoleon poured a scotch on the rocks, handing it to his boss.  
  
Alexander accepted it as he sat in a leather armchair by the window. He took a gulp his glass before setting it down on the table beside him. Pulling his pipe and tobacco pouch from he pocket, he filled the bowl and after tamping down the tobacco he struck a match and lit up.  
  
Smoking his pipe usually calmed his nerves, allowing him to think with a clear head, but this time it didn’t. He stared down at the Briar pipe, reminding himself it had been a gift from his wife.  
  
“Mr. Solo please find them?”  
  
“We will sir. They’ll be found and brought back safe and sound.” Napoleon only hoped that would truly happen.

……  
  
Once supper was finished;  the dishes cleared and washed, it was time for the children to be put to bed. After they’d returned from the barn with Pavel they’d been unusually quiet.   
  
Estelle knew deep down they were afraid. Little Susan seemed most concerned about Illya, and wouldn’t go to sleep until he told her a story. She supposed that was the child’s way of making sure he was all right.  
  
“Now dear, Mr. Kuryakin needs his bed rest as well. You know he’s not feeling well.”  
  
Susan began to pout and seemed near to tears.   
  
“Mrs. Waverly, I will be fine for the short time it takes to tell a bedtime story.”  
  
“Oh, very well, but as soon as it’s done you’re off to bed as well.”  
  
“Yes Ma’am,” he droned.  
  
Illya was led by the little girl to her cot where her brother was already asleep, and guided to sit down on a short stool beside it.  
  
“Promise me you will go to sleep,” he spoke to her in English. “and I will tell you the story of The Cat and the Fox.”  
  
“I promise,” she crawled under the blankets.  
  
“Good, now listen carefully and do not interrupt me with questions please.”  
  
“Illya I know the rules.”  
  
He smiled upon hearing that. “Very well, I will begin the story.”  
  
”Once upon a time there lived a man who  had a cat.  The cat was such trouble, that the man was sick and tired of him.  So, he decided to get rid of his cat.  He put the animal in a sack, took it to the forest, and left it there.  
  
The cat found his way out of the sack and after hours of wandering around the forest, he stumbled upon a cottage.  So, he climbed up to the attic and made himself a nice place to sleep. During the day, The cat went to the forest where he hunted for birds and mice.  He ate well and went back to his spot in the attic of the cottage at night.   
  
One day Fox was passing by.  She saw Cat and admired him, “What a marvelous animal!  I’ve lived in this forest for many years, but never met someone quite like this!”  
  
She bowed and asked Cat, “Tell me, fine fellow, who are you?  Where did you come from?  What is your name?”  
  
Cat raised his chin and replied, “My name is Sir Cat Meowstrong.  I come from Siberian forests to be a warrior in yours.”  
  
“Oh, dear Sir Cat Meowstrong,” said Fox, “I knew nothing about you and your arrival.  Please, come with me, be a guest at my house.”  
  
Illya paused, seeing Susan was already sound asleep.   
  
“Sweet dreams to you,” Illya whispered, brushing the child’s blonde hair from her eyes.”I will tell you the rest of the story another time.”  
  
Estelle had been listening in, helped him to a seat by the fireplace, as Illya insisted upon joining she and Pavel for another glass of piping hot tea.  
  
Except for Illya, the others stared at the fire, letting its hypnotic effects have its way with them, though the agent finally broke the spell by speaking up.  
  
“Pavel you know they will find the plane by tomorrow and come looking for us and I suspect it will not be my employer. You have been most kind, but I cannot permit you to be put in danger. We will have to leave soon.”  
  
The former priest chuckled.”And just what do you think you are going to do? You are blind.”  
  
“Thank you for reminding me. I do not know yet.”  
  
Pavel changed the subject. “Where are you from my son? I hear Moskva in your accent but you are not from there are you?”  
  
“No. I was born in Kyiv but was raised in a Moskva orphanage.”  
  
“At first I was afraid you were Secret Police but it is easy to see you are worried about KGB. Still you carry a gun and I assume you to be very capable of using it.”  
  
“In that you are correct. I work for an organization called the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, otherwise known as U.N.C.L.E. It is tasked to help maintain political and legal order anywhere in the world and  is multinational in makeup and international in scope. We protect and defend nations regardless of size or political persuasion. I am...was, on loan to them from GRU. I took an oath to serve my new employer and KGB did not take kindly to that.”  
  
“That seems like a very lofty thing. This Uncle does not operate here in Soviet Union I take it, and hence your concern over KGB.”  
  
"Actually U.N.C.L.E. operates in Communist and Third World countries the same way that it does in the Western nations. As I said, KGB was not happy when I refused to spy for them, and for that reason I am a target.”  
  
Mrs. Waverly finally rose. “Illya, please go to bed soon? I bid you both a a good night.”  
  
As hearty a woman as she was, Estelle was still up there in years and the day’s events were finally taking a toll on her. It was time to lay down before she fell down.. She climbed in beside Susan and Thomas. Once under a blanket. she fell into a deep sleep.  
  
  
“How long did you live in Kyiv my son?” Pavel spoke softly.  
  
“I was nine years of age, living on the streets after my family was murdered by the Nazis.” For some reason Illya felt comfortable telling this man about himself; normally these were secrets he’d shared with no one except Napoleon.   
  
“Eventually I was put in a concentration camp outside the city along with most of the other street orphans, none of whom survive.  I escaped when I was ten. Had it not been for the Red Army rescuing me from starvation when they retook Kyiv, I would have died.” *  
  
“Thank you for sharing this with me Illya. I am sure it is not easy to speak of such things to others.”  
  
“No it is not. I do not wish to be pitied as that is what people will think…’they would feel sorry for me thinking I had such a terrible life.  
  
“Pity is not such a bad thing Illya. It shows people care.”  
  
“Oh really? Pity is insulting. It is like offering the gift of sight to people who have 20/20 vision.” Considering he was blind as a bat, he didn’t hesitate giving that as an example.  
  
“People never want to get to know me. If they knew my story,  I would be that ‘poor man’ to them. The true me would never matter to them, only the superficial me, the sad one. I would be nothing but a charity case to them, as they would be kind to me merely to make themselves feel better.”  
  
“Illya you are quite bitter for one so young. Life is too short to let yourself live like that. You should let it go.” Pavel suddenly quoted from the bible.   
  
“When I was a child, I was speaking as a child, I was led as a child, I was thinking as a child, but when I became a man, I ceased these childish things. this is what you should do my son. You should not concern yourself with what others might think of you, knowing your past.”  
  
“Thank you Father Pavel, I will keep that in mind. Now if you could please show me back to my bed as I am quite fatigued.”  
  
“Remove anger from thy heart, and put away evil from thy flesh.” Pavel responded.  
  
“...for childhood and youth are vanity,” Illya finished the quote.  
  
“Ahhh so you have read the bible.”  
  
“It is merely a book,” Illya said as he climbed into his bed. He pulled the covers up and rolled to his side, turning his back to Pavel as the man got in the bed beside him.  
  
“Good night Illyusha,” the priest whispered.  
  
“Good night...Father Pavel.” Illya said from beneath the blanket. “Sleep well”  
  
“And you my son.”


	5. Chapter 5

As predicted the snow had arrived and it was coming down too heavily to launch search helicopters.

The signal from Illya’s communicator was growing weaker, preventing them from pinpointing the exact location. The weather wasn’t helping either the techs told Solo, as the atmospheric conditions were somehow affecting the signal as well.

Once the approximate location was determined, it was in three hundred mile radius. Napoleon knew there was a big problem besides the size of the search area as it was located in Soviet territory, somewhere in the Karelian Isthmus. He was aware that territory to be very remote and sparsely populted but that wasn't going to make a rescue any easier...that's if passengers of the missing jet were still alive.

Even though the Soviet Union was a member nation of U.N.C.L.E. there was a good possibility they’d shoot down any plane or chopper violating their airspace. He wondered if that was what had happened to the Learjet.

Alexander Waverly’s already worried brow furrowed at this news.

Since it was not a national emergency, Waverly was forced to wait until morning to make a call to the Chief of the Directorate of the GRU, Colonel-General Korabelniko Vladimirovich, who in turn would notify the Kremlin that an U.N.C.L.E. plane had gone down in Soviet territory.

The instant reaction would be that of spying, so of course Alexander would tell Vladimirovich his wife and grandchildren were on board, as well as Agent Kuryakin. He wouldn’t expect admission if the plane had indeed been downed by the Soviet air defense.

It was Vladimirovich himself who offered Kuryakin to the Command, making the young and very green agent their country’s representative.

Waverly had no illusions; he knew the GRU thought Illya Kuryakin would probably die in the first year of his employment with UNCLE, thought he obviously hadn't and had become one of the Command’s best agents.

What did it really matter to the Soviets, as long as they received their monthly intelligence reports? That was the price for giving away Illya Kuryakin. If he died, they’d merely send another greenhorn as a replacement. Yet his continued survival and excelling at his job might have been a slight embarrassment to Vladimirovich, but hat was neither here nor there as far as Waverly was concerned.

The CCO of U.N.C.L.E. was well aware of the situation with the KGB wanting their revenge against Kuryakin for his refusal to spy for them. It made him a marked man, and at the moment since the Secret Police were in favor with the Kremlin over the GRU, that complicated matters even further.  
  
His only concern was to get to his people and his family out of there before the KGB got to them, that is if they were still alive.

He banished that thought from his mind, telling himself he needed to remain positive.

…..

As the sun rose in the cold winter sky, Father Pavel was already up and about early to start his day with his morning prayers.

He had fine bowls of porridge ready for everyone to eat along with scrambled eggs and toasted brown bread with butter. Jam was a luxury Father Pavel used sparingly, though he made is himself from the local berries when in season. He had dried diced apples which he rehydrated in water to put atop the porridge.

There was steaming hot tea and warm milk to go with this hearty breakfast.

After eating, it was time to see to the animals in the barn, and again the children helped Pavel with his chores. Hay for the reindeer, grain for the chickens and gathering more eggs and last of all, milking the cow.

Before going outside he asked Estelle to go through a trunkful of clothing, but didn’t tell her why. It was donations he’d collected and was planning to give to the poorer families in the area, though there were few of them. He simply said she should look for clothing that would fit Illya, she and the children.

After returning red cheeked from the cold the children were ready for more tea, bread and jam. While they ate Pavel spoke of the clothing.

“We must have you looking like locals should we have any unwanted visitors, so you must change your clothing. As far as speaking is concerned; Illya is Russian so there is no problem with him, and you Mrs. Waverly speak Russian well enough but anyone with good ear will know you are not native speaker. However, it is children who will be biggest problem.”

“They do speak a modicum of Russian as you've heard, and understand it well enough. Susan seems to be the better at it than her brother, “ Estelle said.

“Are not!” Thomas suddenly spoke up.”

“Am too!” Susan shouted at him.

“Not!”

“Am!”

“Not!”

“Am!”

“Enough!” Illya bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. “If you keep up that sort of prattle you will get us all killed. Do you understand me?”

He probably would have felt guilty had he been able to see the look of fear in the children’s eyes.

“Illya dearest, no need to shout. Children you should heed what he says. We are in a very dangerous situation.”

“But can’t Grandad come get us?” Thomas asked.

“I’m sure your grandfather is searching for us and will be here soon,” Estelle ran her fingers reassuringly through her grandson’s hair. It was her hope their rescue was near at hand, but one could never be sure; still she had to remain strong and positive for the children’s sakes.

They all changed into the clothing she’d selected for them, and when done they looked like a perfectly normal Russian family, at least to her. Pavel disappeared again to pray.

A cover story was concocted; Estelle would play the part of Evgeniya Kershakova, Illya’s mother. His first name would remain the same, but he’d be Illya Kershakov.. He was the children’s father; Susan’s name would be Syuzanna, and Thomas’s name would be simply Toma...close enough to both their real names.

Evgeniya, Illya and the children lived nearby but with the cold weather their small home wasn’t warm enough so they came to stay the winter with their friend Pavel. Being blind, Illya could no longer take care of their home, and his family relied upon the help of others to survive.

They even brought their milk cow with them, giving him her milk as a small thanks for Pavel’s hospitality.

“It sounds like a good plan for now,” Illya said, though he warned against Mrs. Waverly speaking unless she was forced to do so. The children, were instructed to give yes or no answers and nothing more, and told to act shy, but it would probably be fear that would keep them from speaking.

Kuryakin’s eyes were still no better, as Mrs. Waverly checked his wounds and changed the bandage on his shoulder. The laceration on his head was healing nicely, and she decided to leave it uncovered, his shoulder however had her concerned. The skin around the wound was red and warm to the touch, a sure sign of infection, though Illya had not developed a fever as of yet.

He insisted on dressing himself without assistance, thinking if his condition were permanent, then he better get used to taking care of himself.

Illya changed into the brown woolen pants she’d selected for him, wrapping a wide black leather belt around the waist to hold them up. He slowly wriggled into a traditional Russian style shirt, a simple homespun that Illya was told was black.

Mrs. Waverly most likely chose it as black was what he favored, but in old Russian tradition it carried a meaning. It was more of an country tradition but people who wore black were older, in the second stage of life, it was worn by spinsters, as well as monks. It possibly meant a disability, but generally it signified a great ‘no’ to the outside world.

The color choice worked well for his cover identity, given his blindness.

Mrs. Waverly in the role of Babushka would work, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into the part...though her choice of clothes, mainly the colors were not quite appropriate after all once Pavel saw them.

“Here Madam,” he handed her a black shift, shawl and kerchief for her head. “No offence meant but a woman of your age would not be wearing such colors. Black is tradition.”

“Oh how dreadful. Not even a hint of color?”

“No, I am sorry. A grandmother here does not dress thusly.”

She sighed, “What shall we do with our own clothing?”

“We must burn it, as I am sure unwanted visitors will insist upon searching my home. If they find it, then I am afraid…”

“I understand Pavel.”

There was disappointment in her voice; she wasn’t a vain woman but she appreciated the finer things in life. Her beautiful dress and winter coat had just been purchased for the trip. It seemed a waste to destroy them when someone else here could eventually wear them, but that wasn’t possible, was it? That would put someone else in danger.

Illya spoke up,” He is right Mrs. Waverly, the clothing must go.”

Everything was tossed into the fireplace, and what hadn’t burned completely was taken outside and buried beneath the pile of soiled hay filled with the manure from the barn.

The falling snow helped hide their tracks to the steaming pile that was a fair distance away from the church. It was hauled on a small flat sledge by the reindeer, with Pavel walking beside it while holding the reins just that morning as the and the children had cleaned the barn and the chicken coop.

The milk cow alone could produce 68 kilos of droppings a day, so that along with the manure from the reindeer could make quite a task at removing it.

The chicken coop, also inside, needed cleaning but not as often as there was a droppings board.The bedding under the droppings board could be left up to 4 to 6 weeks. The coop was deep cleaned twice a year, and would be done in the Spring.

Once the remnants of the clothing was disposed of, Pavel retreated upstairs to pray.  Estelle decided not to intrude, though she was curious about what was there.

Once he returned, he was surprised as Estelle with a little help from Illya, had prepared their supper.

Baked potato bread, and a nice big pot of mushroom soup, to which she added grain, which thickened it up quite nicely. She made a salad of hard boiled eggs and pickles. She baked some pickled vegetables she’d found in jars in one of the cupboards, and used some of them along with more of the mushrooms, and onions to make stuffed pelmeni, this with Illya’s direction.  He could at least give her some instructions on how the dumplings were made, though in the end she really didn’t need his help.

She was just humoring him to make him feel useful at the moment.

He’d always claimed to his partner that he couldn’t cook, except for survival style...that was roasting meat he’d caught on a spit over a campfire.

He could actually make quite a few Russian dishes but chose not to do so. Illya told himself that needed to acclimate himself to living in New York city and America, though most of the time he ended up eating Chinese take away with his partner.

When he felt the need for being Russian again, Illya would disappear to Brighton Beach over in Brooklyn where a fair population of Russian and Ukrainian expatriates lived.

When the table was set, Thomas again helped Illya to his chair, and just as they all sat down to their meal, headlights suddenly appeared outside the church.

Pavel rose and quickly peeked out the door. It was a black sedan, typical of the kind of car driven by KGB.

“They are here,” he ominously announced before returning to the table.

The gravity of the situation was evident in the old man's voice.


	6. Chapter 6

Susan began to cry.

“Now now sweetheart it’ll be all right,” her grandmother tried to comfort her.

“Stoi!” Illya barked. “Say in Russian and do not coddle her Evgeniya! Remember children do not speak, and if you must then only yes or no answers in Russian. Understand?”

“Da...Papa,” the children chimed in together.

There was a loud pounding at the door.

 

“Coming, coming!” Pavel called out. He grabbed a walking stick, one with the face of a bearded man carved into it, and hunched over, pretending to be frail.

He opened the door seeing three men dressed in black coats and hats. They bore the insignia of the KGB on their lapels.

“How may I help you?”

The men said nothing as they muscled their way past him.

“Papers!” One of them demanded of the old man.

“We are but simple peasants sir. We have no papers as we have not left our homes here, and never will. We have never even had the need to apply for permit from selsoviet. Our passports are stored in their offices many miles from here.”

A selsoviet was a rural administrative division of a district that included one or several smaller rural localities. People could not move outside their area of residence without the permission of selsoviet.

One of the agents pulled out a black leather notebook, and began scribbling away in it.

“Gentlemen, may I offer you some warm food on this cold day?” Pavel tried deflecting their attention.

“This is church, what are you doing here?”

“I live here. It is my home, though it was once church. As you can see there is no religious imagery. I have lived here for many years.”

“Your name?”

“Pavel Andreievich, sir.” It was written in the black book.

One of the other men walked over to the table, picking up one of the dumplings and popped it in his mouth.

He looked at the children, smiling at them, and softened his tone of voice. It oozed insincerity as he spoke to them.

“No tears little girl, there is nothing to fear. We only need some questions answered. Now what are your names?”

They looked to Illya, and though he couldn’t see them, he knew what they were thinking; he’d ordered them not to speak after all.

Best to intervene. “Beg pardon sir but who are you that you are speaking to my children?”

“I am Major Vasiliev of KGB, and your name?”

“I am Illya Kershakov, this is my mother Evgeniya Kershakova. My daughter’s name is Syuzanna, and my son is Toma. Their mother Ekaterina, is dead.”

“What is wrong with you Kershakov, why do you not blink?”

“I am blind Comrade Major. I lost my sight recently due to an illness.”

The KGB agent waved his hand in front of Illya’s eyes; seeing no reaction, he was satisfied the blond was being truthful about his infirmity.

“These people have a different name from you Pavel Andreievich; why are they here?” The third agent demanded.

“They are my neighbors and guests. With Illya Kershakov being blind he was not able to adequately prepare for winter. They have come to stay with me until the spring. They even brought their cow with them to give milk to help me while here. If you like I can take you to the barn to see her; she is a fine cow. In the barn I also keep my two reindeer as well as a few chickens. We have to be very self sufficient here on the isthmus.”

The Major listened impatiently, and finally got to the crux of the matter.

“Yesterday a plane crashed not far from here. Did you not go to check on it?”

“Sir,” Pavel bowed his head.” I am old man, nearly snowed in with a babushka, two small children and a blind man. I do not leave my home or them in the midst of a snowstorm. It is not safe to do so.”

“And no strangers came seeking your assistance?”

“No sir. You three are the first people we have seen since the start of winter. Now please may I at least give you some hot tea?”

“No old man! Stop trying to be so accommodating!” The Major shouted.

He strutted around looking over the place before ordering his men to search.

They pulled everything apart, opening cabinets, tossing blankets, ripping the pillows and mattresses, tossing them to the floor, but of course they found nothing.

It seemed the Major was annoyed but momentarily satisfied, but when he moved back next to Illya, he staring at him intently.

“Stand up Illya Kershakov! I find it odd that when we investigated the downed plane, we found among other things, suitcases containing American made clothing; a woman’s clothes, children’s clothing and a clothing for a slightly built man such as yourself.”

Illya stood up, gripping the edge of the table white knuckled with his left hand.

“Comrade Major, I do not know what your are talking about. Our home is here and we have never been away from it.”

“You grew up here?”

“No Comrade Major,”Illya answered contritely.”I grew up in Moskva.”

“Really?” The Major shoved Illya, forcing him to fall backwards, landing on his bottom. The KGB officer grabbed Kuryakin’s foot, examining his boot.

“Then tell my why you are wearing a pair of American made combat boots...Comrade Kershakov, if that is truly your name?”

One of the other agents grabbed the children by their arms, wrenching them from the bench and pulling both to his side. There was no need for a threat, as Illya understood what the man was planning when he heard Susan and Thomas shriek with fear.

Kuryakin carefully rose to his feet, holding onto the back of the chair to steady himself. Squaring his shoulders, though it hurt, Illya proudly raised his chin. He had to tell them the truth, otherwise they might hurt Mrs. Waverly and the children, Pavel too. Though his solution was no guarantee that wouldn’t happen, he had to try.

“I am Captain Illya Nickovich Kuryakin of GRU. I was sent by my superiors to serve on behalf of the Soviet People to United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I am now stationed in New York...America. I have served the Soviet People with honor in the name of ...mother Russia. It was my plane that crashed.”

“Kuryakin? I know that name,”  Vasiliev burst out laughing. “You are the traitor! Capturing you will indeed be a feather in my cap. I will be given a promotion for this. Now Kuryakin, who are this woman and children?”

“There is no need to involve them. These people are innocent and merely took me in out of the kindness of their hearts.”

Mrs. Waverly stepped forward. There was no way she was going to let Illya be taken.

“I am Mrs. Estelle Waverly, wife of Alexander Waverly the head of  U.N.C.L.E. My husband happens to be a friend of the Chief of the Directorate of the GRU, Colonel-General Korabelniko Vladimirovich, and is is also an acquaintance of your Premier, Mr. Khrushchev.”

The Major let out a belly laugh. “Do you think you can frighten me old woman! No one knows you are here, of that I am sure. You will have simply disappeared, and no one will ever know whatever happened to you.”

The Major turned to his men.” Take the old ones and the children out back and shoot them.”

Susan and Thomas began to scream, clinging to their grandmother’s skirt.

“Please, not the children? “ Estelle begged.

Illya lashed out with his foot, kicking the Major in the stomach. Taking his cue from the man’s grunt that he’d doubled over; Kuryakin karate chopped Vasiliev, sending the man unconscious to the floor.

“Illya!” Thomas yelled. “Catch!” The boy tossed the UNCLE agent his gun. The boy had it hidden beneath his sweater, tucked into his trousers. “Nine o’clock and three o’clock!”

“Pffft Pffft!” The gun was fired with uncanny accuracy, hitting the remaining KGB agents and they too dropped to the floor, hit with sleep darts, but not before Pavel gave them each a clout in the head with his walking stick, just for good measure.

“You did it! That was amazing!” Thomas shouted, but that brief moment of triumph quickly passed as Soviet Soldiers suddenly burst through the door, aiming their rifles at everyone.

  
  
* ref.[ Zaporoche](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8930517/1/Zaporoche)


	7. Chapter 7

Drop your weapon!” The order was given and Illya complied immediately. Bending over slightly and laying his Special by his foot, he shoved it forward, away from himself.

“You are Comrade Captain Illya Kuryakin?” An officer...a Lieutenant asked in Russian.

What was the point in lying? “Da, I am he.”

“And you are Mrs. Alexander Waverly and these are your grandchildren?”

“Da,” Estelle replied.

The officer immediately spoke into a handheld radio.

“Yes sir. We have them and they are unharmed. Yes KGB got here ahead of us, but it seems Comrade Captain Kuryakin was able to dispatch them. They too look to be unharmed, and are merely unconscious. Yes sir we will see to them as well. Out.”

Estelle, with the children still clinging to her skirts grabbed Illya’s hand as well as Pavel’s. She assumed they were still about to die.

The Lieutenant saluted them.

“Madam, you the children and Comrade Kuryakin will be escorted to the Finnish-Soviet border without delay. And Comrade Colonel-General Vladimirovich sends you his greetings, Comrade Kuryakin.”

That brought a brief smile to Illya’s lips as well as a sigh of relief. Apparently the GRU hadn’t forgotten him.

“And what of our friend Pavel Andreivich?” Estelle asked.” He must not be harmed. He came to our aid like a good Soviet citizen.”

“I assure you Madam, Comrade Andreivich will be shown the gratitude of the Soviet people. It is not everyday that our Premier orders a rescue for several foreign nationals on Soviet soil. You must be important and therefore Comrade Andreivich will be rewarded for his service to our country.”

“Nikita Khrushchev himself?” Thomas blurted out.

“Apparently so,” his grandmother smiled.

They said their goodbyes to Pavel, and as he bid Estelle farewell his slipped something into her hand. It was the photograph of him as a young priest.

 

“Remember me dear lady. I fear our paths will never cross again. Having somewhere to go is home, having someone to love is family...having both is a blessing. May your life be filled with many blessings."

“God bless you as well Pavel Andreivich. Thank you for saving us,” she said before she and the children were whisked out the door.

Kuryakin was the last to say farewell to the former priest, kissing the man on one cheek then the other as he thanked Pavel for his generosity and courage.

“Tell me Illya Nickovich... in Kyiv, did you ever know a priest named Father Demya?”

Illya’s widened eyes gave away his surprise. “Yes I knew him as a child; he was a very good man.”

“What happened to him? Do you know?”

“I do not know for sure. After St. Andrews’s Church was closed he fled the city but he did spend his last night in Kyiv with my family before he left. It was a long time ago; I was only seven or eight at the time but he said something about going to Hortitsa, the home of the Zaporochian Cossacks. He planned to seek refuge there as he told my family he was born Cossack. I do not know if he survived the war to make it there. ***** May I ask how you know of him?”

“We went to seminary together and were ordained into priesthood at same time.”

“Thank you for telling me this Pavel."

It was an unexpected connection to his former life and family that this brief encounter with Pavel Andreivich gave Kuryakin. He would be forever grateful to the man for it as well as for helping to save their lives at the risk of his own.

“Come Comrade we must go,” the Lieutenant said.

“What of KGB agents?” Illya whispered to the man.

“They will be sent home with their tails between their legs, though I think gulag may be in their future. Now if I may assist you Comrade? My brother is blind so I know what to do.” He took hold of Illya’s hand and placed it on his arm,  carefully leading him out and giving him instructions on his footing until they reached where their vehicles waited.

Everyone was wrapped in blankets and made comfortable for the long drive to the border crossing at Svetogorsk in the Vyborgsky District of Leningrad Oblast. It was located only 1 kilometer from the border with Finland and 5 kilometers from the Finnish town of Imatra.

There at the crossing waited Napoleon Solo and his team. They’d finally managed to pinpoint the location of the signal from Illya’s communicator, and that information was given to the GRU.

The bodies of the pilot, co-pilot and Edmé MacDougall had already been recovered, and now the UNCLE agents anxiously awaited the arrival of the Waverlys and Kuryakin.

Apparently the two men masquerading as UNCLE pilots were identified as members of T.H.R.U.S.H. so that answered who was at the bottom of it all. The question that had to remain unanswered was where the Learjet was being taken. There were no satraps that the Command was aware of within Soviet territory...yet.

They might just leave that up to Colonel-General Vladimirovich, and the GRU to discover for now.

At the Finland side of the border several ambulances were parked, waiting to take the Waverly’s and Kuryakin for medical clearance and treatment in Imatra if needed. Even if uninjured, they all still needed to be examined as they’d been in a plane crash.

As soon as Napoleon saw his partner being helped to cross the border by Mrs. Waverly and the children, he knew something was terribly wrong, and went immediately to Illya’s side as soon as they were on the Finland side.

“So what sort of trouble did you get yourself into now Tovarisch?” He tried to keep the tone of voice upbeat.

“Napoleon? I am quite pleased to hear your voice.”

“Hear… not happy so see me?”

“Therein lies the problem as at the moment  I am as blind as the proverbial bat. Mrs. Waverly seems to think it is only temporary. It was caused from a head injury when the plane crashed, but that remains to be seen...no pun intended.”

“What happened?”

“Mrs. Waverly and the children were apparently being kidnapped and I was just along for the ride, so to speak. The pilot and copilot were not our agents. Dare I suggest they were THRUSH moles?”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head. The pilots were a pair of birds all right. Where they were taking you is being thoroughly investigated. I’m so relieved you and the Waverly’s are all right...well for the most part.”

“As am I my friend.”

 

Illya and the Waverlys were transported to the hospital in Imatra and once examined by the doctors the Waverlys were given a clean bill of health.

It was confirmed that Illya’s blindness was indeed temporary, due to a swelling of the optic nerves.  He was treated with antibiotics for a mild infection in his shoulder wound, as well given as anti-inflammatory medication.

Though he wasn’t happy about it, Illya spent the night in the hospital. The next morning, he was able to see light and shadows, much to the relief of all. He was responding well to his medication and compliments were given to whomever had treated him previously.

Arrangements were made for Solo and his team to escort the family and Illya to Rovaniemi. There would be a Christmas eve reunion for the Waverly family after all.

That evening, they all sat at a rather large dinner table in Alexander Waverly’s suite in the hotel, the Old Man raised his glass. He wished everyone a Happy Christmas, and gave thanks to God for the return of his family and one of his best agents.

“I’ll second that sir,” Napoleon said.

They drank up, with everyone ready to dig into the Christmas goose that had been specially prepared for them.

“Alexander, might I say grace?” Estelle asked.

“Why of course my dear, please do.”

She held out her hands, asking everyone at the table to join hands. Illya being able to see even better, took his partner’s hand in his left hand, and gingerly reached over taking little Susan’s hand in his.

“Dear Lord we thank you on the eve of Your Son’s birth for this bounty. Bless us each and everyone but please bless and watch over Father Pavel Andreivich. Keep him safe dear God, and please bless Colonel-General Vladimirovich as well as Premier Nikita Khrushchev. Give them your wisdom and guidance in their decisions that we might have peace in the world.”

Alexander’s bushy brows raised at that last bit.  “Amen to that my dear. Now shall we start the feast? “

He raised the carving knife and fork, ready to carve the crisp goose.

“Look Grandad. Look at the sky!” Susan pointed to the window. “Look at the colors!”

“That’s the Aurora Borealis, “ he smiled, “also known as the northern lights. He was thrilled the children could see it after all, and wondered if there had been a bit of Divine Intervention for all this to have happened.

“May we go have a look Grandad?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Illya can you see it, come with me?” Susan asked. She took his hand, not really giving him much of a choice.

He could make out the beautiful colors, though things were still a bit blurry; they were being reflected in the river and the lights prompted him to speak.

 

“Sometimes it begins as a glow of red on the northern horizon, ominously suggesting a great fire dragon called the Ognenniy Zmey. “ He suddenly realized that was not quite an appropriate legend as the dragon was said  to seduce women when their husbands were away.

“The colors can gradually change to a curtain of violet-white, or greenish-yellow extending from east to west as they unfold like a luminous cloth across the sky; sometimes as a vast multitude of gigantic flaming swords furiously slashing at the heavens; sometimes as a flowing crown with long undulating colored streamers fanning downward and outward.” Illya hands became quite animated as he spoke.

“How beautiful Mr. Kuryakin,” Estelle Waverly smiled. “Now come all of you before you’re dinner gets cold.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Illya half smiled. He made it back to his chair, unassisted.

“Gee I didn’t know you had it in you,” Napoleon leaned over towards his partner. “That was a gorgeous description of the northern lights.”

“I merely described what I have seen in the past.”

“Still, I think there’s a bit of a poet inside you Illya Kuryakin.”

“Oh that?  It is merely the soul of a true Russian coming out, I suppose.”

“A soul, Tovarisch?” Napoleon grinned. Maybe his Godless Russian partner wasn’t so Godless at all.

Kuryakin ignored what Solo said and tucked into his dinner.

 

The conversation was at a minimum as everyone enjoyed the delicious food. Finally as the plates were cleared by the hotel staff, Mr. Waverly looked at his wristwatch. It was nearly time.

The double doors opened and in walked a man with a great white beard. He was wearing a long blue velvet robe and matching cap. Slung over his shoulder was a large bag overflowing with wrapped presents. He stepped forward, leaning on an old walking stick, one with the face of a bearded man carved into it

“Ho Ho Ho! Hyvää joulua!” He called out,  first in Finnish and then in Russian.“Kho-kho-kho! Schastlivogo Rozhdestva!” Pausing for a second, he then spoke two heavily accented words in English. “Hoppy Kriost-mos.”

It was Father Pavel!

“Santa!” Susan squealed.”See, I told you he was Santa Claus Illya!”

Kuryakin smiled, recalling that he’d told Susan otherwise when they first met Father Pavel, and saw his red sled drawn by reindeer. For a split second Illya’s heart leapt, and was filled with the awe of a child. Could he be Grandfather Christmas?

“No,” he shook his head, but for the brief moment it was nice to have thought it.

Mrs.Waverly drew a white hankie trimmed with lace from the sleeve of her dress and quickly dabbed her eyes with it.

“Thank you Alexander.”

Waverly blushed ever so slightly. “My darling, I can’t take full credit. It was actually Mr. Solo’s idea. My part however was a telephone call to Mr. Khrushchev.”

He hadn’t really expected Nikita Khrushchev to be willing to let go a Soviet citizen so easily, especially since Andreivich had been a priest overlooked by the purges of the Orthodox clergy. He knew he would owe Khrushchev on this one.

“Amazingly the Premier granted Father Pavel his personal permission to emigrate to Finland and even had him flown via helicopter to the border crossing. There our men and representatives of the government of Finland were waiting for him with open arms.”

Napoleon chimed in. ”Here he’ll be allowed to be a priest again and be able to minister to the many Russians who fled here in order to practice their faith. After having given his home and animals to someone in need the good Father has arrived just in time for Christmas.” Solo winked.

“Well done gentlemen,” Estelle raised her glass.

“Hear hear. God bless us everyone,” Napoleon said as he observed his partner wipe away a tear from eye.

“Getting all choked up Tovarisch?”

Illya sat up straight, perhaps embarrassed he’d been caught in an emotional moment.

“No, there was merely something in my eye, a bit of dust perhaps.”

“Yeah, right,” Napoleon mumbled. He leaned over again, and getting Illya to raise his glass, he clinked his to it with a ‘ding.’

“As I said,” he whispered,”God bless us everyone…

 


End file.
